


As faint a sound in my memory

by Derry Rain (smakibbfb)



Series: The Terror Hip Bingo [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26128936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smakibbfb/pseuds/Derry%20Rain
Summary: In which Edward Little leaves his lover behind to survive.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: The Terror Hip Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886383
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	As faint a sound in my memory

**Author's Note:**

> _Then the dream ends when the phone rings,  
>  You're doing alright, he said  
> It's out there most days and nights,  
> But only a fool would complain.  
> Anyway Susan, if you like,  
> Our conversation is as faint as a sound in my memory,  
> As those fingernails scratching on my hull._  
> \- Nautical Disaster, the Tragically Hip

Edward’s hands are not shaking as he cards them gently through Thomas’ hair; it breaks, falls off in his fingers. Thomas does not wake. He closes his eyes a moment, and just listens to the raspy rise and fall of his breath. He doesn’t dare touch Thomas’ skin now, can’t bear the thought of causing this man, this man of all men, any more pain. He wants to lean down, to kiss him and whisper apologies that Thomas will not be able to hear into his ear. Instead, he rises on steady legs, adjusts his coat and steps outside the tent.

“Let’s go,” he hears himself say. The gathered men part, allow him to take his place at the head of the party.

He doesn’t look back as they march away.

His skin feels tight, hot, _wrong_. His throat is parched, and he knows it is not just the lack of water. He swallows hard. It is not a sob.

_Wait_.

They are half a mile from the camp and there is nothing but sky and land and sky and land around them. His feet protest with every step.

_Stop._

They are a mile from the camp. They are two miles from the camp. How far are they away? They have been walking for so long into the nowhere. Beside him, he hears ragged breaths and little else. There is no conversation anymore.

The sun is too hot, too bright. Even shielding his eyes doesn’t seem to stop them watering, and the salt as it dries leaves tight crystal tracks down his skin. When the men demand a rest, Edward sits heavily on the floor and scrubs one arm against his face. The dirt-encrusting his coat scratches his skin and he’s almost grateful for the pain.

_Edward_.

One of the men doesn’t stand again. They strip him of any useful items and leave him where he is, his clothing covering his face from the birds. Edward Little has never been a praying man, and he does not pray now. He stares at the body before pulling the fabric over him and for a moment he thinks of watchful grey eyes and a slow, sardonic smile.

_Please._

Another man falls at another camp. Though the man was slight before he was starved, Edward all but chokes with the effort as he pulls the body away from the camp. He is stopped by another thin hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t you think,” the man says, his voice low and thin with exhaustion and the weight of of what he is about to say next. “Don’t you think he would have wanted us to live?”

Edward’s fingers tighten to claws in the cloth of the shirt he is holding. He takes a breath, looks straight ahead into absolutely nothing. His arms sag.

“They all did,” he says.

The body he surrenders without any further protest.

_Edward_.

His hands shake and he sinks to his knees on the hard, unforgiving ground. He doesn’t cry, just waits to fall apart. He cannot kiss Thomas now, but he curls into himself and whispers apologies into the air and prays and prays until he is sure that there is no soul left inside the shell that he is.

_Edward._

“Edward.”

A hand on his face, another on his chest. Edward blinks, once twice, and stares upward into familiar grey-green eyes. His breath catches. _Dead_. He thinks, _dead and gone and dead and –_

Thomas kisses him. “Ned, you were having a nightmare.”

Edward brings his arms up, traces Thomas’ hairline with a soft, gentle reverence. His eyes prick with tears. There are still shadows on Thomas’ face, shadows that he knows they all have, that will never leave them now. He struggles to sit up in bed – in _their_ bed – he reminds himself and looks past Thomas, counts the squares in the wooden panels, lists the items of clothing neatly folded over the chair. Slowly his breathing returns to normal.

“Not a nightmare,” he says, helplessly. “Thomas…”

Thomas kisses him again.

_I know, love._


End file.
